


The Coat Which Saves and Suffocates Me

by PassionForTheArts



Series: Politi-Girls [4]
Category: Politi-Girls - Fandom, The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: (This time on Commies end from her old USSR days), Angst, Crash Course on National Bolshevism (Nazbol is her daughter so flashback time!), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, Mentions of Russian Revolution and Russian Civil War, Not Beta Read, Reminiscing, Sapphic, Toxic Relationship, Wistful Thinking, definitely not 100 percent historically accurate, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 20:14:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30060936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PassionForTheArts/pseuds/PassionForTheArts
Summary: When you’re the living embodiment of a political ideology that hinges so often in history’s most turbulent times, trauma is inevitable. But maybe, Commie thinks, her current headache-turning-migraine, could’ve been avoided. Nobody is there to listen, though. With no vodka, she turns to her second most comforting cope-amine.Her journal.
Relationships: Authoritarian Unity (Centricide), Communist/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide)
Series: Politi-Girls [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139588
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	The Coat Which Saves and Suffocates Me

**Author's Note:**

> There isn’t much action in here- feel free to read my other fics for that. This fic is centered mostly around Commie’s internal thoughts and turmoil of keeping it together. She pleads for her wishes to be heard, to be given the chance.
> 
> Spoiler Alert- It hadn’t worked in World War II, and it isn’t going to now. 
> 
> Trigger warning for a very brief mention of suicide idealization.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

Commie's once-warm coat feels more suffocating than cozy as her wife's anger sets the day ablaze with unremorseful irritation. “Don’t forget to pick up the oranges. Unless you’re too drunk to remember that, too.”

“Remind me why I shouldn’t just throw you out this goddamn car.” Commie scowls in a low voice, gambling the chance that Nazbol, dangling her legs from her car seat, was too preoccupied with her tablet to hear the true nature of her mom’s relationship. “You know how to drive on your own.”

Nazi snatched the opportunity to rant about family values- none of which made sense or even applied to their family- it was two women and their biological though not physically conceived hybrid of a child. The only thing that was missing from the dynamic wasn’t the “man of the house,” or “Aryan standards,” but rather the basis of any decent bond- contentment.

Nonetheless, once the Russian had dropped off her wife and child at ballet practice (Nazi wouldn’t be swayed from making sure Nazbol was doing her absolute best) the first thing she did at home was pulling out her diary- centuries worth of dreams, hopes, nightmares, memories, but most importantly, her feelings. Feelings nobody could ever guess with a single glance of her strong, chiseled face. 

Knowing Nazi’s knack of watching “degenerate” works of literature burn, Commie had taken care to keep it hidden in a place only she would ever look.

Flipping to the nearest blank page, she pulled out her pen from the last century -a reincarnate heirloom- from underneath the desk.

_Again, the words in my mind evade my tongue, somehow. But with you, sweet pen and paper, I can find the peace I have yet to find in her. Regrets are bountiful in life, though now I’m wondering if I’m a magnet for trouble. To run away from it all- from her, would be the dream that grows more and more distant. The distance I could use for her. But I won’t run._

_Facing Nazi Germany and their attempts to invade my home- I hadn’t run away. I had run towards to defend what I loved. Not for my victory, but for their loss, since there are no winners in war._

Commie pauses midway through writing the last letter of her sentence. Not for her victory, but for their loss. Who was the “they” in that statement? Her ruby-red eyes drift to the family portrait that hung above her mahogany desk. To outsiders, or even any other political reincarnate, it was simply two women with smiles that could paralyze others for their beauty. Prominent cheekbones, pale, glass-like skin, clear blue eyes, and buttery silk curtains braided in two was the face of fascism- literally. 

_Not even a century later, I’m at war once more. But not two countries, no, no. I’m losing the war of my heart, to a woman who doesn’t deserve redemption or sympathy of any sort. I stay not for what they have done to me, or the useless hope of them becoming anything beyond a husk of hatred and contradictions._

In the picture above, Nazi held a small toddler- a child no older than a few years. (In mortal terms.) Commie shuts her eyes.

* * *

1992, fresh out of the Russian Revolution, some began to lose hope. They had once again been thrown into another crisis- a Civil War. Not wanting to lose their home, their national identity, the likes of what was just a few followers would band together to develop the National Bolshevik Party. 

But Commie didn’t know that yet. Nor did she know her next mission would involve the budding of a new political incarnation. In the office, a younger, less scarred Commie waits. Would there be an update that would require her to traverse the snowy hills of her home? Or maybe there was something wrong she had done? 

As it turns out, it wasn’t a big deal- at least, not the kind Commie had expected. Her boss, followed in closely by a nurse, had broken the news. 

Not wanting to disrespect her boss, she held in her protests of taking on the role of motherhood. She’d been too comfortable with war to possibly be capable enough to take care of something so precious, so innocent of the harsh world she’d grown to mold herself around. 

“May I see who this… special child is?” Commie’s boss nodded for the nurse to step up. Carefully, the woman peered over. For one reason or another, Nazbol had dusty blonde hair as a baby- now, a century later, Commie suspects it had to do with the lack of political radicalization in a reincarnate. Nazbol was always such an adorable thing.

“What’s her name?” She whispered hoarsely, scared she would break the baby’s ears if she raised her voice any louder.

“Nadia.” The nurse smiled. 

Commie’s boss went on to explain the backstory of Nadia- most of which she almost missed, too distracted by the tiny girl, and the off-hand reminder that this was how all humans and a few political reincarnates started off, uncorrupted by the hellish reality.

“-I trust you will take good care of her. The children are the face of the future, after all.”

* * *

Commie flickers to reality- subconsciously, she has held her hands out, moving her fingers in a caressing motion, as if to recreate the memory of gently squeezing her daughter’s face with her thumbs, the plush fluff of her cheeks a stark contrast with her calloused hands. (The callouses never seemed to fade, even with lotion.) Embarrassment doesn’t wash over for being so physical in her memories, it is the sentimental longing that does the job.

 _Nazbol, my beloved,_ Commie scribbles. _The anchor that keeps me from drifting. No, not in the sense I feel obligated to merely stay present because of you, I do it for you. _

_It sears into me that the circumstances have made it that much more difficult to remain a functional family, but my dear Nazbol, I give my heart and soul, in all reincarnations, for you. Even if it means burning myself so your bitch of a (Mutt)er may stay warm._

By the time she’s done writing, she’s on the last line of the last page of her notebook. For a minute, she’s surprised? Shocked? Flabbergasted? Despite pouring all of her thoughts, again, the words evade her tongue as she tries to identify what she was feeling. Especially because she knows this won’t and wouldn’t ever be the last vent. This won’t be the last fight. 

Commie grunts- blyat, the headache had worsened. The woman lays her head on the table, too tired to pick up some medicine from the cabinet. She’s too tired. Or maybe that’s the more positive reason she chooses not to grab the pills. The escape would be too tempting- but with no guaranteed of working.

For some reason, Ancom reappears in her conscious line of thought and overwhelmed from everything she’s bottled in, cries as she remembers the ‘good old days’ with her leftist comrade. Things could be so different if she had made the right choice. The tears exhaust her and before she knows it, the cold, wooden desk has become her pillow.

* * *

Commie snaps awake to the sound of the phone ringing. She scrambles to pick it up- “He-”

“You stupid Slav, where the fuck are you?! Why haven’t you picked up your goddamn phone?! Do you realize how many times I’ve called you?!” The shrill voice hisses.

Before Commie could snap back at Nazi, the sound of a child coughing in the background quelled any anger. “Mutti, please, everyone’s staring-”

“Let them stare. Let them know what happens when you agree to degeneracy-” Nazi’s voice became louder, presumably since she turned her head back to the phone speaker- “And the fool it turns you when you believe that a woman can do a man’s job of being the protector of the family.”

The guilt and shame of imagining the only thing that kept the relationship together in the first place shivering in the hellish weather quickly override the smugness of taking jabs at Nazi’s fading facade of calmness. “I’m sorry Nazbol. I’ll be there soon. Just remember to stay close to your mom.”

“See you, mama. Thank you for everything, I love you!”

“Give me back the phone!” Came Nazi’s distant voice in the background, before the call abruptly ends. Commie tucks her journal away in the secret place, prepares to leave when at the door she reaches for her coat when she realizes she had never even taken it off when she had returned. The coat, a barrier of the cold, even in her own home.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of fascism/nazism and communism/Marxist-Leninism having a "relationship" is always a fascinating one to write. I'm quite wary of writing angst, but I think I did okay by not encouraging anything mentioned here.
> 
> I've also been listening to a bit of Pierre XO, particularly his roseþ EP album. It's one of the driving factors of why this fanfic was even written. So thank you.
> 
> Ramble aside, thanks for reading this far! Leave your critiques and kudos here. I'll see you next fanfic


End file.
